


The Prince of Darkness

by blondeonblonde



Series: The Celebrity Years [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Interview, M/M, Outing, Paparazzi, Politics, mycrofts past, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8980195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondeonblonde/pseuds/blondeonblonde
Summary: Greg is frustrated by Mycroft's mixed signals. They have been dining together for every other week for several years but although Greg is making his intentions obvious (at least to a Holmes) Mycroft is not taking the bait.However when Mycroft is forced to reveal a part of his past he would like to forget, he and Greg have the opportunity to talk more openly. Part of my series based on the interference of the press in the characters lives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an interview where Mark Gatiss cites Peter Mandelson, former MP as the inspiration for his version of Mycroft Holmes. If you are not from the UK you probably aren’t familiar with him, but he’s a particularly slimy individual who had had a number of scandals attached to him and had to resign his position twice. This story is based on a particular incident that really happened to him, although I have changed names and dates to fit the story better. (See end notes for more details!)  
> This fits into my collection of media related stories as it features paparazzi attacks and a television interview.  
> I don't have a beta and am posting this whilst exhausted! So please let me have any corrections, or ask me about any particular British references you don't understand. Thanks

 “So, Gregory, Number 87: Sant-Yagos, what do we think of it so far?” Mycroft pondered, staring across at his dinner companion in anticipation.

“Strong North African influences” Greg replied. “It reminds me of that Tapas place with all of the fish decorations, in, where was it? Ladbroke Grove?”

“No…Lancaster Gate, Amabi, it was called; number 27. Lovely Berenjenas Gratinada I seem to recall.” Mycroft corrected, the Spanish tripping off his tongue like a native. “Ladbroke Grove was number 41 – the Moroccan with those high stools.”

“Oh, yeah. God I hated those stools, like being perched on top of a chopstick.” Greg paused for a moment remembering the discomfort. “Amazing soft shell crab though.”

“Hmmm.” Mycroft smiled to himself as he hummed in agreement. They both sighed a little thinking contentedly of meals past, and there had been a lot of them. Together they were working through the Timeout top 100 restaurants in London list, after Mycroft discovered Lestrade’s surprisingly well developed palate. It proved perfect for them. A Masterchief addict, Greg relished the opportunity to try quality food usually out of his price range, and Mycroft looked forward to the few days a month he permitted himself to forget his diet regimen. This occasion saw them at a trendy little tapas bar sharing tiny plates of perfection. They sat lounged at their tables engrossed in conversation, relaxed and comfortable in each other’s presence.

They were there ostensibly to talk about Sherlock. Lestrade had been reporting to Mycroft ever since he first started permitting him to help with cases. However, since random kidnappings had settled into a more mutually respectful meeting arrangement involving food and wine, their bi-weekly meetings had become less and less about Sherlock and more about their own friendship.  

This would develop even further if Greg had his way, he’d long fantasised about these meals as dates (and as Mycroft as his lover). Sometimes he thought they were right on the very edge of something more, but he could never quite work out if Mycroft felt the same.  Greg was certain Mycroft could read the desire in him, he’d demonstrated enough times that he was at least as good at reading people as Sherlock, but he’d never mentioned it or indicated his own desires.

Despite the many hours they had now spent together Mycroft remained a mystery when it came to relationships or his past. Lestrade knew about what food he particularly liked, his music tastes, his film and theatre preferences, even surprisingly, about his passion for Formula 1. He had, however, never been allowed to delve into the murky depths of his personal life, and rarely mentioned any other family or friends apart from Sherlock.

It had become late in the evening all too soon and the restaurant had started to empty.  They had sampled countless plates of food, and were now nursing coffees in an attempt to delay leaving, keen to hang onto this little mid-week sanctuary away from the tedious pressures of their working lives. Greg loved it when Mycroft reached this time of the evening. The quantities of food and wine had relaxed his usual stiff persona into a charming and affable companion. He’d also allowed himself the liberty of undoing the top button on his shirt and loosening his tie, showing his long neck and revealing a hint of pale hair at the base of his throat. Whilst Mycroft was talking Greg would sit and fantasise about what else he might find if he peeled back the layers of bespoke tailoring. 

“They had another domestic afterwards, I take it?” Mycroft enquired. They had returned to the subject of his brother’s latest adventures.

“Yeah, not bloody surprised after he lied to John like that.”

“He was trying to keep him safe as I understand?” He questioned.

“Yeah! But can’t he see what that does to John? Ok, so he’s in one piece, physically. But emotionally – a wreck. Sherlock, eh! Brain as large as a planet – and yet he can’t see something as simple as that!”  Greg shook his head in disbelief.

“I have to agree with you there, Gregory. If only he would apply his mind to _why_ John hates him lying.”

  
“Where would you start though with John, I mean- the stuff he’s been through!” They exchanged a meaningful stare, it was only a year or so since the whole Mary debacle.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah I do.” It was a discussion they had had many times before: How long would it be before Sherlock and John admitted their feelings and got together.

“Can you believe the cheek of him though! Expecting the widow to indulge him like that.” Greg chuckled to himself as he thought over the case.

  
“Unfortunately, after a lifetime of watching him, it’s all too easy to believe.  What’s more remarkable is that you are still surprised by his antics.”  Mycroft looked up at Greg with an undecipherable expression.

Greg leant forward, elbows on the table in a blatant breach of dining etiquette.

 “You think I’m an idiot for still believing in him?”

“On the contrary, Gregory. I think you are simply too good-hearted for this world.” He said earnestly, without a hint of Mycroftian sneer.

There was a sudden silence in the restaurant and Mycroft’s words fell heavily between them. Time seemed to freeze and Greg could feel the tension between them tug and pull. That was such a romantic line, he decided to go for it.

 “Mycroft, …” He slid his hand over the tablecloth to touch Mycroft's which was elegantly pinching the stem of his wine glass.

Mycroft took a sharp intake of breath, drew his hand away swiftly and used it to wave to the waiter. Greg withdrew his hand too, trying not to break into pieces. He couldn’t lose faith, he knew he couldn’t be misinterpreting the atmosphere between them, but what good did it do when he couldn’t make a move. By the time he had finished contemplating his failed attempt, Mycroft had already paid the bill and was calling to summon his driver. It felt very much like he was running away. 

 

All the next week Lestrade tried not to obsess over the uncertainty between them. Luckily, he was engaged in a high-profile case that took up all his time. On the other hand, it had caused a huge amount of media attention and he was spending a great deal of time trying to move between buildings without being set upon by reporters.

The worst moment came when he tried to enter St Barts with John and Sherlock. The meaningful location had drawn out even more paparazzi than usual to shout and flash and push. Sherlock and John were the main focus for press harassment so Lestrade and another officer tried to act as a human shield between them and the intrusive lenses.

Despite their best efforts at maintaining a barricade, the questions still came thick and fast, focusing as ever on the ambiguous romantic lives of the duo. 

 “John! What’s he like in bed?” One journalist shouted, gesturing towards Sherlock with a rude hand movement.

John kept marching towards the building, head up and stoic. 

 “Sherlock! The rumours....you and Dr Watson, lovers?” Came from the other side of the throng.

 Sherlock had his head down, face tight in a grimace, but he too kept on walking in silence.

Lestrade felt sorry for the men, having to continually battle this question. Despite his and Mycroft’s convictions about the depth of both Sherlock and Johns feelings for each other, he was certain they had not begun a relationship. If they were together, there is no-way Sherlock would have kept quiet about it. Greg had been privy to too many blurted secrets to think that he would be able to retain that piece of information without showing off.

Lestrade shouted back at the reporters whilst continuing to elbow his way through the dense crowd. “Don’t you think he’d tell you if they were together!" he growled at them.

There were ripples of laughter from the throng as well as snorts of disbelief as they continued to push forward.

 "Well... He wouldn't be embarrassed" Lestrade continued "He’s hardly one for hiding in the shadows!”

“Shadows?” A particularly obnoxious reporter sneered, “No.....but perhaps in the Darkness!”

Lestrade stared at the reporter,  who continued to call out. Then another of the crowd started too, throwing his hands towards Sherlock and crying out… “Behold! The next Prince of Darkness!”

The entire crowd laughed and catcalled, jeering and repeating the phrase. Greg could hear 'Prince of Darkness", "Prince of Darkness" ringing from all directions. Sherlock shuddered and pushed himself more forcefully through the crowds obviously affected by the words, although they meant nothing to Lestrade.

Lots of shouts happened all at once then and Greg could only catch a few.

“ _He_ denied it too!” They shouted. “How can we trust anything _you_ say?”

Greg flashed a look at John mouthing ‘Prince of Darkness?” but John’s answering shake of the head showed that he was equally as mystified by the reference.

By the time they finally pushed their way into the building, Sherlock was red in the face and absolutely seething.

“The Prince of Darkness?” Lestrade asked cheerfully, hoping to lighten the mood. “What’s that then? Some vampire thing? Harry Potter?...”

“ _Those fucking leeches_!” Sherlock yelled, starting to stalk up and down and kick things along the corridor walls. John hovered nearby, watching carefully. “ _Bastards, all of them!_ How dare they impose their grubby morality onto the rest of us. _How dare they?"_

He was shaking, practically foaming at the mouth. Greg had never seen him in such a state. Suddenly Sherlock rounded on him, raised up to his full height - chest puffed out in indignation. " _Do something Lestrade_!" He cried gesturing wildly to the entrance. _"Fucking lock them up!_ … I _demand_ you arrest the whole filthy plague of them!”

Again, Greg turned to John, who could usually interpret Sherlock better than the rest of them. But all he got was a shrug.

“I wish I could Sherlock, but…”

“Urghhh!” Sherlock let out a long growl of rage and hurled a particularly violent kick at a waste paper basket, sending it skidding down the deserted corridor. “Then _what fucking use are you_!”

“That’s a bit harsh, mate!”

“No. It’s fucking not, Lestrade. Now shut up and _leave me alone_!” He stormed off, still ranting, and Greg decided it was not worth the hassle to follow. He’d let John calm him down a bit and catch up later.

He sat on the hard-plastic hospital chair and pondered this outburst. It intrigued Greg immensely, because although Sherlocks tantrums were legendary, he rarely swore. He also felt unsettled about the ‘Prince of Darkness’ reference. He didn’t know where it came from or what it alluded to and that made him uneasy.

 

When he got home that evening it was still bothering him. He was sure it was something important for Sherlock to get so worked up about, perhaps it was for this case. Honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time (or the 25th) that he’d kept something important from them.

With a microwave ready-meal and a bottle of beer, Lestrade collapsed on the sofa and one-handedly googled ‘Prince of Darkness’ on his phone whilst spooning in lasagna with his other.  Annoyingly he only got results about some old horror film, and that was not enough for Sherlock to have got so angry about.  

Before he could think better of it he flicked to his phonebook and called his little brother Richard, a pub quiz legend.

“Hi mate, just got a quick question to ask that big brain of yours. You got a minute?”

  
“Sure Greg, I’ve never been one to run from a pop quiz!” Richard chuckled down the phoneline. “Fire away!”

“Uh…You ever heard of ‘The Prince of Darkness?’” Greg ventured. “…Came up in a case today. Is it some film character? Sounds like some kids villain or something?” He paused, suddenly feeling quite silly for pursuing this.

“No, not that” replied Richard, pausing to scour his memory. “It’s a nickname…You know… ‘The Prince of Darkness’…..it was a young MP wasn’t it, in the 90’s. Bit of a scandal at the time. Don’t you remember?”

“Not all of us have super brains like you.”

“Well, it must have been, what 1991, something like that. John Major’s government.” 

That made sense to Greg as to why he wouldn’t remember, 1991 had been a pretty full on year for him, going through police training (and he’d never really been one to keep track of politics.)

“Yes, but what _happened_.” He implored, none of this answered the riddle of Sherlock’s distress.

“Oh, I don’t really remember the details and it doesn’t come up very often. The guy left politics right after, so it’s a pretty obscure reference Greg! Besides I am at work you know. Why don’t you look it up yourself, his name was Holmes I think…Mycroft Holmes.”

  
“Of course it was.”  Greg mentally faceplanted the desk, couldn’t remember the scandal for the life of him, but of course this thing came back to Mycroft.

“Right, well got to go, see ya, Greg. Good luck with the case.”

 

Greg slumped back into his well-worn sofa and stared at his phone – turning to google once again. He typed in ‘Prince of Darkness Mycroft Holmes’ and hit search with baited breath…only to return no results. He growled in frustration, then typed in ‘Mycroft Holmes scandal 1991’; no results. Then ‘MP Holmes 1991 scandal’; no results. He tried every permutation of the phrase he could think of, including searching the BBC news and national newspaper online archives but after 15 minutes of information blackout he had to conclude there were forces at work here well beyond the scope of his IT skills. The logical conclusion was that Mycroft had erased himself from the internet.

He kicked the end of the sofa in frustration. He despised secrets and hated the feeling that Mycroft was keeping something from him. How were they ever going to become closer if he didn’t know anything about the infuriating git.

Greg was just contemplating the consequences of misusing the police archival service to ferret out the information when there was a polite knock at the door. The sound lifted his spirits somewhat as the only person who regularly called on him was his upstairs neighbour Mrs Clairmont who baked the most delicious gingerbread, and had a tendency to fuss over him.

He opened the door in anticipation of a mouth-watering tray of biscuits only to discover Mycroft instead, standing very stiff and holding out his right hand in an odd manner.

 “I believe _this_ is what you’re looking for.” Mycroft stated firmly, twitching his hand.

“Uh, what?” Although he was an intelligent man Greg could not get his head around this unexpected arrival. He squinted hard to concentrate and try and focus on what Mycroft was saying rather than the unwelcome chill that he was radiating.

“Don’t be an idiot, Detective Inspector.” He tutted.  “You are well aware what I am referring to.”

  
Greg chuckled sarcastically. “I’m really not.”

“Well…lets try and walk through it shall we?” Mycroft's face contorted into a pained impression of a smile.  “You have spent a good part of the day searching for a particular piece of information concerning myself, which you have been unable to locate. Then I show up brandishing a memory stick, commonly used for transporting information” he opened his hand further so Greg could clearly see the USB drive. “Why do you _think_ I might be here?”

“Well… if you put it like that, I suppose I do know what this is about.” Greg conceded.  “I guess it’s you looming in the doorway that’s putting me off a little.”

“I’m not looming.” Mycroft spat.  “I don’t ‘loom’.”

 “Yeah, you do mate”. Greg raised his eyebrows in challenge, but didn’t really want to fight the issue. Instead he backed further into the hall that lead to his living room. “Look, just come in, yeah? Then we can take a look at the memory stick if you still want to.”

  
“If _I_ still want to?” Mycroft sneered in amazement.  “It’s not for my benefit. _I_ already know what’s on it.”

“Yeah, but…it’s fine, Mycroft. I don’t need to know. I was just curious, it doesn’t matter. None of my business really…”

There was silence as Mycroft digested this. He didn’t seem relieved by this option to leave the information unshared, and instead of making to leave he strode across the room and sat down on the sofa. Greg was honestly ready to drop the whole business, he felt a little creepy in fact, trying to hunt down information about his close friend. However, he had become more attuned to Mycroft’s mannerisms over the years and he could tell from the tension in his shoulders and jaw that he had not yet reacted how Mycroft had planned.

“Unless of course…. you’d like it to be my business?” Greg offered tentatively, worried he might still have the wrong angle on the conversation. That is until he saw Mycroft sag just a little in relief and smooth his hand over his trouser leg. They were obviously back on script.

“I would rather it needn’t be, Gregory. I’d quite happily never think of the matter again, in fact not thinking of it is a daily goal of mine. However, I know you…you’re a good detective and you’ve got curiosity in your blood. You’ll find out soon enough, and quite frankly I’d rather it was from me… I presume you _have_ got a laptop around here somewhere.” He glanced around the small flat his nose in the air.

It took a moment for Greg to locate the thing, which he set up on the pile of books he used as a coffee table, and settled down on the sofa next to Mycroft. He prised open the laptop and started the process of powering it up. Mycroft handed him the memory stick and started talking softly, looking down at his knees as he spoke.

“Imagine the scene, Gregory…I was a young MP at the time, just elected in fact. Sitting in my office late in the evening working through some papers. I have Newsnight on in the background, one of the only television programmes I considered civilised enough to permit. And suddenly I hear my own name mentioned….You can hear for yourself what was said…” Mycroft gestured him to insert the memory stick into the laptop, although it was still struggling its way through start up.

 “Honestly Gregory, What century is your laptop from?”

“Says the man in the three-piece suit!” Greg ribbed.  “I’m sorry - Did my ancient machine ruin the timing of your speech?” He grinned up at Mycroft who didn’t look so amused. Greg longed to say something more amusing, something that would make Mycroft chuckle into his handkerchief in his delightfully old fashioned way, but he couldn’t think properly in the face of his hostility.

Luckily the computer pinged into life and he fiddled around to find the right folder.

“This file?” Greg asked sceptically, “It’s only a 30 second clip.”

Mycroft confirmed a nod.   “That’s all it took. 30 seconds to change my life.”

Greg clicked on the file and a media player popped up, video starting immediately.

The Newsnight interview was underway but Greg had no idea what the discussion was about. A young Jeremy Paxman was grilling someone who looked vaguely familiar about some sort of personal scandal within the Conservative Party. Greg couldn’t follow the conversation at first but then the interviewee started to become defensive about whatever he was claiming, and Paxman moved in for the kill.

“How can you possibly claim that? Paxman demanded, his customary disbelief throwing his opponent off his game.

“Well…I know there are two gay members of the Cabinet at least” The Interviewee blurted out. Greg’s breath caught in his throat at the subject matter.

“Are there two gay members of the Cabinet?" Paxman queried.

“Cecil Glover is openly gay and Mycroft Holmes is certainly gay". Greg couldn’t help but react, he stared at Mycroft trying to read his reaction, which was to remain blankly staring at the screen.

Greg turned back to the video to see Paxman, who looked a touch flustered say “I think we will just move on from there. I’m not sure where he is on that” and the video came to an end.

Greg sat a little shell shocked for a moment. He had imagined all sorts of scandals that Mycroft Holmes could have got himself involved in, all sorts of nefarious dealings and dubious moral decisions, but public declarations of his sexuality? That was not what he expected, and it seemed such an innocent clip. Why was Mycroft still so mysterious about it after all these years?

The fact he was here at all made Greg’s heart stutter though. He was finally getting answers. Ok, so perhaps he didn’t understand what they meant right now, but Mycroft was here, discussing his sexuality and his past! This had to be a step forward.

“Um, what did you do?”

“I carried on working for about 30 minutes and finished the papers I was working on. Then there was a very aggressive knocking at the door – a journalist. When I didn’t answer they started bawling intrusive questions through the letterbox. Then it started to sink in, that I’d been very publicly outed. Oh, it wasn’t exactly a secret, I had a partner at the time, my family knew, most of my fellow MPS, some of my constituents….but this was 1991 – I could see it would still become a scandal. We’d just been through a period of political discord with Maggie’s resignation, it was the middle of the AIDS crisis, I could only guess how long it would take the newspapers to descend on me.” Mycroft flexed his hands that were clenched in his lap.

“I admit…well it seems now that I might have panicked. Not my usual style, but I’ve always kept my private life private and it seemed so intrusive to have it so inelegantly blurted out like that.”

Greg tried to look encouraging, to keep Mycroft talking.

“I may have abused my power somewhat in attempts to stop the spread of the news, banned the BBC from mentioning it, called in any favours I had with journalists, served injunctions on those papers I didn’t have in my pockets. In hindsight, it was foolish, emotionally driven hysteria on my part. The blasted interview had gone out on live tv- half the country had already seen the footage, there was no way to keep it under wraps.” 

Greg nodded, but thought of how distressed Sherlock became if things weren’t going his way. His single-minded determination to get something done. And from what he had seen, Mycroft was even more ruthless in pursuit of his goals. He could only imagine the lengths he would go to when pressured and frightened. He wondered if Mycroft was underplaying the extent of his abuse of power.

“It ultimately cost me my job, I was persuaded into resigning. No-one wanted to be publicly associated with me, not just because of my sexuality, but because I’d tried to bully my way out of the situation in a way that was not admired.”  Mycroft cleared his throat, he was obviously struggling to talk about himself so candidly. “It was then I moved from public life to a more background role. I have no desire for further publicity.”

“But you weren’t even the only politician mentioned! What about Cecil Glover?” Greg asked.

  
“Ah, yes, well Cecil was in his late 60s at the time and famously celibate. A homosexual in name rather than deed, and rather harmless in appearance. In contrast I was young, in a relationship… had several past lovers that I was afraid might talk, and more importantly I was disliked. I hadn’t acquired the nickname Prince of Darkness for nothing…. Secrets and discretion have always been my modus operandi….I admit to employing some shadowy practices before and since.”

“Really!” exclaimed Lestrade in mock-surprise. “I’d never have imagined that from you!” Mycroft twitched his lip and leant over to swat Greg on the arm playfully.  “Ah, so that’s what the ‘Prince of Darkness’ thing is about. No-wonder it riled Sherlock so much.”

“Hmm. I’m afraid I’m probably as to blame as he is for his reluctance to confront Dr Watson. He was only young at the time, you see, and very insecure. He saw what the press put me through and was understandably put off the idea of sexuality and relationships.” Mycroft shrugged and smiled sadly.

“But ‘The Prince of Darkness’!”  Greg exclaimed.  “Very mysterious for a nickname…In fact, I quite like it…”

Mycroft raised an eybrow. “I believe they’ve since moved on. I’m referred to colloquially as the Ice Man now.”

“Ha! It should be Ice-and-a-Slice Man, Mr-Gin-and-Tonic at any opportunity!”  

“Very droll. I’d have thought you’d have more questions for me.”

Greg thought for a moment.

“What about your partner?” He asked softly, aware they were nearing topics that could impact on their embryonic romance.

Mycroft answered immediately as though he was reading from a file. “A nice young chap I’d been seeing for about 9 months. Brazilian, a foreign student at a nearby university. I ended the relationship as soon as the story broke. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Just like that?” Greg exclaimed.

“It was for the best.” Mycroft stated firmly. Greg snorted in disagreement. In response he permitted himself to ask a rather more cheeky question.

“And since then?”

“Since then, Gregory, I’ve never permitted myself to get close to anyone.”

“Well that’s bollocks!” Greg huffed. Mycroft was taken aback, he didn’t get rebuffed like that very often. “You’re close to me aren’t you?” Greg elbowed Mycroft in the side.

“I do appear to be.” He replied archly, glancing at the little space between them on the sofa.

“Well let me tell you” Greg continued, pointing his finger and jabbing it at Mycroft.  “You won’t get rid of me as easily as that Brasilian bloke.”

Mycroft stood up straightening the creases of his coat and turned to face the room.

“Gregory. I will be frank. We are not in a relationship but I am aware that our interactions are heading that way.  Your curiosity into this matter has come at a timely moment because I have long wanted you to know why we can’t be anything more. I trust you will take this information in the spirit in which I have intended. To know that when I cease our flirting and return to a mere business alliance, it is I who is at fault, and not you.” He paused to let Greg respond but seeing only a blank stare on the other man’s face (as Greg was struggling to take in all of this new information) he started towards the door and threw him a dismissive glare.

 “Well, Lestrade– I’m sure you’ve heard more than enough from me. I’ll leave you to get on with your evening.”

“Great…..so now you’re doing it again…” Greg muttered, face and mind still blank. He wanted to stop him, to grab him by the waist and pull him into his arms, but he was adrift in this production of Mycroft’s. He keenly felt the lack of pre-written lines. Mycroft was so far ahead of him.

  
“Pardon?”

“You’re repeating the same mistake.” Greg managed to choke out. He started to come to full awareness of what was happening and snapped suddenly to attention, eyes focused fiercely on Mycroft who looked intensely puzzled.  “Mycroft, You’re pushing away someone who cares about you because of your hurt pride!”

“My pride! Is that all you think was hurt!” Mycroft swung around to face him again, voice teetering on the edge of passion. “How could I have possibly allowed him to continue to be harassed! It would have been utterly selfish of me to continue our relationship. I would not permit it! As I would not permit you to be hurt by it!”

Hearing Mycroft’s outburst raised his hackles, he too became suddenly impassioned. “Whilst I am really fucking glad we’ve finally broached the subject of our mutual interest in each other, can I just say that this is the shittiest, lame-arse excuse I’ve ever heard for a dismissal!” Greg’s voice had raised and he could feel the adrenaline starting to burn through his veins. He was _not_ letting Mycroft get away with this!

“God! You’re so like Sherlock sometimes I could shake both of you. What were you saying about Sherlock last week? How hypocritical can you be! Can’t you see that caring for someone doesn’t mean protecting them from everything – it’s about weathering the storms **together.”**

Greg was pacing the small living room, pointing and gesticulating at Mycroft. Now he’d started to let out his frustration, he was damn well going to get it all out.

“And whilst we’re on it, Mycroft Fucking Holmes, I’m not some twink you can brush off, hell, pay off probably.”  Mycroft blushed slightly indicating his guilt and Greg coughed out a dark laugh. “I’m a high ranking police official for fucks sake. I can look after myself – I don’t need you to protect me from the world.”

“So you would like to think, but believe me if I didn’t intervene for a living your cosy world would look a lot different.”

 “Don’t bring your work into this. There’ll be no ‘Prince of Darkness’ here. No Fucking Ice Man either, come to that. Rule number 1 between us, I’m instating it now -You don’t try and manipulate me. Ever. I’ve spent enough of my life being deceived by my cheating wife, I won’t have you decide what’s best for me.”

“Gregory…”  Mycroft put his hands up between them as if to re-assert his argument, but Greg could sense he had begun to soften. The anger drained out of him as he took in Mycroft’s wide eyes and nervous, fidgeting hands. Suddenly he saw Mycroft not as a Machiavellian politician, trying to manipulate him, but instead a lonely man, scarred by past trauma.

He sank back down on to the sofa and beckoned Mycroft to come and join him again. This time when he spoke it was without anger, and he gently placed his hand on Mycroft’s knee as a gesture of support.

“No-one’ll care you know. I understand that it was traumatic at the time, but honestly Mycroft, things have moved on.”

“I realise that the issue of one’s sexuality is no longer shocking to the general public. But it will be an issue because of my past reactions… Having to resign, keeping quiet and unattached for so long.  These things will have made the reaction even worse.” Mycroft shook his head and tried to convince himself it would be so. Greg knew he was wavering. He leaned in closer and started to rub circles in Mycroft’s perfectly tailored trousers.

“I’d try and persuade you by proposing a secret liaison, but I reckon the problem last time was not the _relationship_ but that you didn’t admit it. You tried to hide and it made everyone suspicious of your motives. If you’re simply open about it, and I’m sure no-one will bat an eyelid.”

“Oh, bugger it.” Mycroft cursed at himself. “I’d love to believe that Greg, really I would. But I’d never forgive myself if you end up going through a fraction of what I did then.”

Greg knew he was close, just a little further to go and all that he wanted could be his! He had to keep pushing.

“Mycroft. Even if there are some small inconveniences, wouldn’t it be worth it?”

“I admit it am finding you strangely persuasive.” Mycroft looked up at him through his lashes, genuinely shy.  He gained confidence quickly however, seeing the satisfied smile now gracing Greg’s features. “How do you propose we test the reaction?”

“On Thursday night we’re booked into that Lebanese Restaurant in Islington.”

“Hmm, number 88.”

“Right, well, when we’ve been flirting all evening, and are full of delicious food and more than a little wine, you are going to be brave, Mycroft. This time when I can feel the tension crackling around us, see your elegant fingers stroking your wine glass, when I feel the need just to touch you, I’m going reach across the table…” He extended his arm to Mycroft’s and brushed his fingers against his, held tight in a fist by his side. “And you are not going to pull away or pretend nothing is happening.”

“No?” Mycroft’s fingers loosened their tight grip at Greg’s continued touch. He could feel the heat and tension between them start to swirl in delightful anticipation. 

“No. Instead you’re going to let me hold your hand across the table and look into your eyes whilst we talk, you’re going to let me feed you bits of my food, and you’re going to behave exactly as if we’re on a date.”

Greg moved closer, still keeping hold of Mycroft’s hand and starting to brush his thumb across the top of his fingers.  “Can you manage that?”

Mycroft swallowed and looked at his feet. “I should think so.”

“Oh… and you should probably kiss me now too.” The smile Mycroft gave him was the largest and most genuine he had ever seen. In fact, they were both sporting such huge grins that their mouths hardly met at all at first. Slowly though, they focused on the kiss and sunk down onto the sofa in a passionate embrace.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a true incident – In 1998 Peter Mandelson, or ‘The Prince of Darkness’ was accidentally outed on Newsnight and tried to cover up the revelation. I may have exaggerated his reaction slightly here but he certainly gagged the BBC to stop the footage being referred to, and there are rumours about photographs of him being deleted from computers in newspaper offices. He was not forced to resign after this particular incident, although he twice subsequently was. He is still involved in politics, as a Life Peer in the House of Lords. I believe he is still together with his partner, although he has never officially acknowledged their relationship or his sexuality.


End file.
